Even Dragon Have Their Endings
by Mystical Magician
Summary: Companion to Wings and Fire. No one steals from a dragon's Hoard and gets away with it. Stephen may not have destroyed Thanos personally, but he certainly arranged it. More importantly, he can steal back two more of his treasures from that thieving creature. AU Endgame Fix-It. Ironstrange. "So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings." -J.R.R. Tolkien


I should really be working on my Ironstrange Big Bang fic, but this idea solidified after seeing Endgame for the second time. I thought I'd take a break from torturing Stephen to…torture Stephen in a different way. Poor Stephen.

You should probably read the first two chapters of Wings and Fire, or else you might be confused. This will likely be the last fic in this series, although I'll leave it open just in case inspiration strikes. Like with DS2 or something. But I can't promise anything.

* * *

"_But where there's a monster there's a miracle."  
__**-Ogden Nash, "Dragons Are Too Seldom"**_

From the moment Stephen moves to hold back the wall of water he is frantically multitasking, quickly and carefully reweaving certain threads of the spell so that the Cloak can anchor it, as well as keeping an eye on what is happening around him. The Avengers have gotten them this far. So close to the finish line, any number of things can still go badly wrong. Stephen has done his best to set them up for the checkmate, but bad luck might still see either side in check.

He watches as Carol is sent flying, as another potential future is whittled away. The Cloak quivers, though whether that's in response to his desperate spellwork or his heart racing with the terror of possible failure he doesn't know. Both, probably.

Tony looks to him, searching for a glimmer of hope that they can win this.

Stephen isn't sure what his own expression looks like, but he folds down his fingers as best as he can with his ruined hand. One. One future in which they win. One future he considers a win.

He can see Tony's resolve harden. Can see the plan snap into place as he turns all of his attention back to Thanos.

The spell holding back the flood shifts and anchors solidly on his Cloak the moment Iron Man looks away. At last.

The Cloak of Levitation slips from his shoulders, spreading its fabric like wings – _his wings_ – as the waterspout wavers and then shifts back again. The spell draws power from Stephen, but the Cloak can direct it now, and hold it in place. The connection between sorcerer and Cloak is dangerously open and exposed. It's necessary, of course, but a bit unnerving.

Stephen ignores the discomfort and sprints for Tony, knees jarring in ways the Cloak generally prevents as he stumbles over rocks and debris. Thanos snaps his fingers, and Stephen pushes himself harder.

Tony is on his knees. Raises his hand as the Infinity Stones shift into place.

Stephen barely hears him over the sounds of battle. "…am…Iron Man."

The power of the Stones crawls up the side of his exposed neck.

Tony snaps his fingers.

Stephen's hands clamp down on Tony's forearm as best they can. Both of them are lit up with phenomenal power. Stephen is the only one between them who knows how to channel energy, who can filter and siphon the excess that is killing Tony and direct it elsewhere. He has only ever channeled energy into spells, however, and there are no spells here that he needs to perform, no real way to safely disperse the energy he must draw. So he directs it to his dragon soul, the one being…not-quite-being…soul that can survive it. His possessiveness increases with each moment that passes. His posture shifts, shoulders slightly hunched, shoulder blades pulled slightly forward. The way he holds himself would make more sense, be much more obvious, if he had wings. Stephen is mantling, protecting what's precious to him. He glares down at his companion – at his _heart_ – and growls through the pain, "I do not so easily let go of what is _mine_."

Unbeknownst to him, his eyes are slit-pupiled and glowing with increasing brightness.

Thanos and his army begin dissolving into ash. The multicolored light that coursed through Tony begins to dim, leaving behind dark burn scars and flashes of agony whenever he moves.

Stephen and the stones are still lit up, and he allows gaze to drift away from Tony's dark eyes and down to the makeshift gauntlet. He's saved Tony. It can be over now. He doesn't have to do this. He doesn't have to, but if he is going to, this is his only chance. Is he selfish? Or selfless? Would she want this? Does he care?

What it comes down to, is that he would regret not trying. He would feel guilty. Perhaps she made her peace with her decision, but Stephen had been the one to set this future into motion. He was the one who decided who might live and who might die. He's dedicated his life to healing. Spent his life playing god. Why stop now?

Selfish.

But he's a dragon, still. Thanos had stolen more than half of his Hoard, and Stephen's only revenge has been taken indirectly. He hadn't been able to destroy the warlord himself, had only been able to retrieve the half of his Hoard that had been snapped away, and it wasn't enough, but he _will not_ allow him to steal away his treasures. His crowning jewels, that had grown in value with every future he searched through.

Stephen's heart is safe for now at least, but…

"A soul for a soul," he murmurs, just loud enough that Tony can barely hear. He seems almost hypnotized, unable to look away from the sorcerer's inhuman eyes, but Stephen is focused completely on the Soul Stone.

He bargains. He's become very good at it. Some part of him already mourns the loss, but his decision has been made and he does not waiver. It's not the hardest thing he has ever done, not nearly.

The translucent outline of an enormous head appears suddenly, scaled snout and sharp fangs and slit pupils emerging from his chest. Tony jerks, and then winces in pain, but Stephen grips his forearm as best he can, refusing to let go. He can't, not yet.

The lines of the creature's body as it materializes are mindbogglingly enormous. Just the head itself dwarfs the pair. And yet, before the torso even appears, the head arches gracefully and dives into the Soul Stone as if sucked into a vacuum. The rest of the body follows, appearing, arching, and diving in one long continuous motion. The wings are half-flared when they become visible, and disappear almost as quickly. Stephen's heart aches at the sight.

At last the tail slips free of him. The Soul Stone blinds, but Stephen's eyes – human now – are closed and turned away. It may be his imagination, but he thinks he feels a snip when the last scale of the apparition escapes him. Like something has been cut away. His limbs feel weak and his knees give out abruptly. Stephen crumples to the ground, vision fading out. The Soul Stone gives one last flash before dimming, and darkness seems to blanket the area. Tony has already passed out. Stephen manages a glimpse of tangled bright red and bleached blond hair draped upon the dirt before he, too, is gone.

The Cloak has been slowly releasing the spell on the flood. Streams of water trickle onto the quieting battlefield, drawing attention to the problem. A few of the sorcerers move to hold it back themselves while Ant-Man uses the debris from the destroyed compound to build a temporary dam.

The Cloak stops Stephen's spell as soon as it's able to do so safely enough, and then zooms over to Stephen too late to catch him. It covers him instead, a watchful, protective presence until Wong can gather him and put him somewhere safe.

The problem with Stephen had always been that he'd had too much soul. The result of his past life, of a dragon willing to give up eternity for mortality, but not his self, and of a Being who either did not notice or did not care.

He doesn't feel like there's a gaping hole in his being, or an emptiness that should be filled and never will be. No spiritual scars, or aches as he'd half expected. Stephen mourns what he lost, but he feels…lighter, almost.

It makes sense. He is whole, now, entire and without the excess. The memories are still there, but faded and distant, like the memory of a memory, or a dream. His instincts are dulled, almost, and his temper and possessiveness are neither so sharp or so strong as he is accustomed to. A lifetime of discipline, of iron control and holding back the impulses that would frighten and unnerve most people, and now it feels like there is nothing to guard against.

Wong worries. Stephen can tell. He hasn't figured out how to loosen the reigns and readjust his level of control yet, so it often seems as though he walks around and feels nothing.

He feels clumsy, somehow, as well. Physically, mentally, and spiritually off-balance. He's still a former dragon, of course. But he's also more and completely human than he's ever been. Without almost overwhelming dragon instincts, he's even more of a pacifist now than he's ever been, he thinks.

Or maybe Wong worries because of the nightmares. Because of the futures he's searched through and the guilt that makes him sick, makes him shake, makes him cry sometimes. Because occasionally he loses track of the timeline.

* * *

"You're not very subtle."

Tony jerks as Natasha ghosts up beside him, cursing under his breath as his ginger ale splashes over his hand. He's still on pain medication, so alcohol is off limits, and he's a little afraid that if he starts to drink at this point, he won't be able to stop until he's dead.

"I don't know what you mean," he mutters. He sets his glass on the planter he is hiding behind and licks off the drops of his drink from his hand. His other arm is in a sling, which gives him a fantastic excuse not to shake hands with anyone who comes up to him, wanting to be seen with one of the saviors of the universe, or whatever they're calling them these days.

It's just two and a half weeks since they managed to bring everyone back, and already the Capitol has put together a fancy shindig for their heroes. Tony hadn't been able to use his injury as an excuse to duck out, much as he had wanted to. So he put on his game face, made the rounds, and slipped behind a large potted plant, or tree, or whatever it was, when it got to be too much. It gives him a good view of the room, and prevents people from sneaking up on him. Most people.

"You've been staring at him every time I've seen you tonight."

Tony picks up his glass to give his hand something to do. "At who?" he demands.

"Even now, you're keeping him in your peripheral vision." Natasha sounds amused. "Stephen Strange."

He considers denying it, but there's no point with the Black Widow. Instead, he turns to give the tall wizard his full attention once more. It's jarring to see him without his robes and cape. Tony has seen his pictures from when he was a neurosurgeon, of course. Had done very thorough research into the man almost the moment he'd returned from Titan and recovered from starvation, dehydration, and near death by suffocation. But it's still feels so…well, strange, to see him in a tux. And hot.

Not to mention, that bright red tie has a very familiar pattern and color.

Strange must feel his gaze. Must have felt it all night, but all he does is look up at him, perhaps cock an eyebrow, and then looks away. Tony hasn't been close enough to interpret his expression, if he even has one. He hasn't seen him since that final battle. Hasn't even spoken to him despite watching him all night. And Stephen has made no move to seek him out.

"He's different than he was," Tony finally says. "I just can't put my finger on it."

Natasha hummed. "He's lost that feral edge," she says after a moment. "He doesn't move like an apex predator anymore."

That has Tony staring at her instead. But something in her words rings true, and now that it's been said out loud, he can't unthink it. Still…

"How could you even know that?" he wonders.

"What exactly do you think I was doing at headquarters these last five years, if not going over every last detail of what happened and the people involved?"

Tony makes a face. "I went over footage and background too, you know."

"I suppose I do have unfair intimate knowledge in this case," Natasha shrugs.

Tony flinches when the words register, hand clenching around his glass so hard that he's surprised it doesn't crack. He keeps his eyes on his drink as he tries to wrestle his emotions back under control. He's got no reason to feel…whatever he's feeling. He's being stupid.

In his dreams, glowing inhuman eyes stare into him and a rough, deep voice whispers, "_Mine_."

"Tony."

He refuses to look up, not wanting to see sympathy, or pity, or understanding – however Natasha chooses to respond when she realizes…whatever she's going to realize upon seeing his expression.

"Tony. Not like that. I meant from the Soul Stone exchange."

That gets his attention. "He's still got his soul, though, right?" He hasn't seen Stephen since the battle to confirm how he is, which had made him twitchy and anxious. He had only calmed a bit once he'd seen the sorcerer in attendance tonight.

"I assume," she responds, uncharacteristically uncertain. "You should talk to him."

"Why, what did he say to you?"

"Nothing."

Tony looks at her.

"I've kept away. I didn't know if I'd serve as an unpleasant reminder of what he'd given up, so I thought I would let him approach if he wishes, or stay away if he prefers," she says softly.

He doesn't know how to respond to that.

After a moment Natasha shakes herself from her melancholy, and grins at him slyly. "I assure you, you won't be getting any competition from me."

She times it so that he chokes on his drink. "Nat," he scowls, but she shoves him out into the open so that he almost stumbles into someone.

The someone they'd been talking about, Tony realizes as trembling hands reach out to steady him. He looks up into pale eyes and a face that could have been carved from marble. "Strange," he says a little breathlessly. He kind of wants to kick Natasha, but he doesn't actually have a death wish, and he doesn't doubt that she's hidden among the rest of the guests by now anyway.

"Stark," is the cool response. There's a beat of silence, and then the sorcerer's expression warms slightly. "Call me Stephen."

"Only if you call me Tony," he responds, and tries not to feel giddy. He can't blame it on the alcohol, unfortunately. "You look…healthy," Tony continues, looking his companion up and down, as if he can spot any injuries that way.

Stephen's lips quirk. "None of my injuries were anything serious." He tilts his head slightly in inquiry as he glances at Tony's sling, and Tony internally rolls his eyes at himself because he should not find that endearing.

"Still on pain meds, but it's a hell of an improvement. Missing out on all the alcohol, though," he says, looking around for somewhere to set his empty glass.

Stephen gestures, and it disappears.

"Handy," Tony smirks, receiving one in response. But he's easily distracted sometimes, and also, to his occasional regret, has never had much of a filter. So even as he does it, he regrets asking, "Say, Doc, you do still have your soul, right?"

All humor flees. Stephen's expression is once again a stoic mask. "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

Well, he's already put his foot in it. Might as well be blunt. "Because I don't actually know what that would look like, but I did hear you say something about a 'soul for a soul', and then Nat came back even though that was supposed to be impossible. I mean, you don't look soulless or anything, but sue me for being curious."

"Rest assured," Stephen says with a faint smile so false it sets him on edge, "I still have my own soul, whole and entire."

Tony believes him. He isn't lying. But there's something he's mourning, something of grief in that false smile and the hitch of his breath.

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me?"

They lie together in the dark, limbs tangled, and Tony doesn't think he's ever felt so safe. It took them so long to get to this point, battling trust issues and overcoming walls, but it was worth it. All of it.

He can tell Stephen thinks so too. Can feel it in the way he melts into Tony's touches, the way he lets Tony hold him up, the way Stephen doesn't hesitate to touch in return when he tends to hide his hands away from everyone else.

They know each other. The good and the bad. The ugly and the beautiful, and never quite agree which is which.

This is question that has been on his mind since almost the beginning, drifting to the surface of his thoughts in the quiet bedroom. He thinks Stephen might answer, might trust him enough and be healed enough to do so.

"What Natasha saw? What you gave up?"

The stillness is so all encompassing that Tony thinks he won't answer after all. That he will pretend not to hear, and Tony will let him.

Then Stephen shifts, a solid wall of heat pressed against his back, and his lips brush Tony's ear as he whispers, so quietly that Tony holds his breath so as not to miss anything, "I was a dragon, once, before I was born a human. An immortal creature, the last of my kind, before I chose a mortal life…"


End file.
